


so much sweeter

by montparni



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Siblings, these children make me want to CRY, tread carefully if you're not a fan of stupid cute brothers being stupid and cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montparni/pseuds/montparni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of two brothers and the people they've met along the way, as told through potatoes and molasses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amy

**Author's Note:**

> wirt and greg's parents, jonathan and amy, are the wonderful creations of [skimmingthesurface](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface), and if you haven't already, i strongly encourage you to go read her stuff RIGHT NOW! A GREAT BIG THANK YOU to her for letting me use them, and i hope i did them the justice they deserve!!

To the outside world, the Palmer-Whelans looked like the perfect family. A nuclear family, almost, with a devoted mother, a loving father and two beautiful boys. Happy, understanding and functional in every way.

This was not _quite_ the truth.

Of course, Amy _did_ love her family, and would defend it to the death. Who cared if her sons weren’t full brothers, or her husband wasn’t her first? She loved them as they were, flaws and all.

But, well. She couldn’t help but wish that Wirt and Greg would just _get along_ , for once.

Jonathan assured her that Wirt was “a teenager, Amy, his moodiness is completely normal, I was exactly the same as him when I was that age.” And she knew that, of course, but she was also fairly certain that most older brothers didn’t outright _ignore_ their younger siblings whenever possible. Surely there should be _some_ kind of relationship between the two that wasn’t composed of mild irritation and a dogged, almost desperate, determination for some kind of affection.

And Jonathan certainly didn’t help matters, trying so hard not to get on Wirt’s bad side. No matter what Amy said, he insisted upon acting more like a benevolent uncle than the parent he actually was. It was nice that he was trying to respect Wirt’s boundaries, but he shouldn’t have to withstand the teenager’s rudeness with a smile, and Amy shouldn’t have to be Wirt’s only active parent.

So, when she finally got an afternoon off, she bullied Jon into helping her cook a nice roast dinner for them. Hopefully some family bonding time would break a little bit of the tension that was building up in the house.

But, of course, it didn’t quite go as planned. Wirt’s clipped answers to her questions about school, his friends, and clarinet were disheartening to say the least, and Jonathan didn’t contribute much to the conversation, not even to gently encourage Wirt to join the school marching band, which had become his most recent project. Even Greg was strangely quiet, not babbling about his exploits at school that day or explaining the complicated new game he’d devised or anything. Stifling silence settled in the room, and Amy despaired at the sombre mood.

A sudden scream broke the quiet and Amy, Jonathan and Wirt all jumped in their seats.

“Greg! What’s wrong?” Amy asked breathlessly, a hand pressed to her chest. Her little boy was going to give her a heart attack one of these days.

Greg bounced in his chair a bit, still screaming. When he started to wave his arms about, Wirt pillowed his head in his arms and began groaning loudly.

Jonathan then decided that it would be fun to join in. “Are we dancing?” he asked over the commotion, moving his arms and body about in a way that was probably meant to _look_ like dancing but in reality it looked more like he was imitating a flightless duck. Amy sighed internally, but she couldn't help but think that it _was_ sort of a relief that everyone seemed back to normal.

“Jonathan. Sweetheart. You are a giant manchild, and it pains me every day.” Her husband stuck his tongue out at her, which only served to prove her point further. “Wirt, quiet down. You’re being dramatic.” Wirt looked up from his arms and scowled at her, but she had bigger things to deal with right now.

“Greg! Greg.” She reached across the table, at the enormous risk of getting slapped by a very over-excited Greg, and caught his wayward hands. He was still vibrating slightly, but at least now no one was in any danger of losing an eye. “What’s the problem?”

Greg managed to wriggle out of her grip and stand his chair, chubby fists planted firmly on his hips and his face shining with adorable determination. He pointed an accusing finger at Amy. “These potatoes are underseasoned!”

Amy, feeling irrationally insulted by a six-year-old, gestured to Jonathan. “He made the potatoes!”

Greg swivelled on his heels to point at his father instead. _“Underseasoned!”_

Jonathan raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry, buddy," he said, not looking particularly sorry. "What are they missing?”

“Don’t encourage him!” Amy hissed, swatting her husband’s arm. Turning to Greg, she closed her eyes and drew in a long, deep breath, in-four-out-eight, her hands placed gently together as if in desperate prayer. “Greg, get down from there or you’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

“No! The revolution shall never die!”

“Vive la France!” Jonathan crowed.

Wirt sighed and made to stand up. “I’m leaving.”

“You aren’t going anywhere, young man,” Amy said, turning a stern look towards him.

Wirt dropped heavily back into his seat, arms crossed and lips pouted. She was dealing with three infants. Amy rubbed her temples. She could already feel a headache settling itself behind her eyes.

She watched her youngest son strike up a revolutionary marching band, with him on brass and Jonathan on woodwind. She had to admit that she was a little tempted to join in on percussion, but _someone_ in this family had to be mature, and it sure wasn’t going to be one of these three. “Greg, what will make you sit down and finish your dinner quietly?”

“Hmmm!" Greg stopped playing air bugle and instead stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I think the problem with this dinner... is that it’s not dessert.” His little face brightened and he snapped his fingers, and Amy melted. She couldn’t stay angry at Greg for long. “I’ve got it!”

He dropped a graceful little curtsey with a dainty, “Excuse me,” then jumped off his chair and dashed into the kitchen. Amy couldn’t help the little smile that crossed her face. Jonathan was giggling merrily, and even though Wirt rolled his eyes, she thought she could see his lips twitch very slightly upward too.

Greg barrelled back into the dining room with a gleam in his eyes and a jar in his hands. “Molasses!” he announced proudly, holding the jar up and shrieking the opening song from The Lion King.

“Molasses?” Wirt asked incredulously, his lips curling in disgust. “Greg, don’t be dumb. Molasses don’t go with potatoes.”

Greg’s exuberance faded as he lowered the jar and looked at it, a bit unsure.

Amy turned a disapproving glare on her eldest son. “Wirt! Don’t say that to your brother!”

Jonathan leant forward to comfort Greg, bless his soft heart. “Hey, bud, your brother didn’t mean it. He just-”

Wirt scoffed. “No, I meant it. Why do you guys have to baby him so much? Look, he doesn’t even care, he’s fine.”

Sure enough, Greg seemed to be back to his usual energetic self, climbing onto his chair like a monkey on a sugar high and jiggling about as he tried to remove the lid of the jar. But Amy could tell- his excitement, his brightness, had dimmed just slightly. Greg had always taken his big brother’s words to heart.

“Mom? Could you open this for me please?” Greg puffed, putting all his strength into the lid of the jar.

Amy bit her lip. “Greg, Wirt was right about one thing. Potatoes and molasses don’t really go together.”

“Sure they do! Dad has it sometimes when we have orange potatoes!”

“Well, they’re sweet potatoes Greg. It’s different.”

“Why? They’re both potatoes.”

Jonathan looked genuinely baffled, as if he hadn't really thought about this before. “Well, yes, but-"

“Aha!” Greg had finally managed to pry the lid off, and was now vigorously shaking the jar over his dinner.

“Greg, careful!” Amy shouted, but it was too late- there was already at least a tablespoon of molasses on his plate, and more was glugging out. She glared at Wirt, who was sitting next to his younger brother but was doing nothing but look on with morbid interest. “Wirt, stop him!”

Wirt shrugged. “He can do what he wants. Let him learn from his mistakes.”

“This isn’t a mistake, Wirt! It’s genius! I’ll sell this idea to the big suit guys and be rich! Rich, I tell you! _Muahahahaha!_ ” Greg looked down at his plate to find the rest of his food drowning in thick, dark molasses. After a moment of consideration, he nodded, satisfied, and grabbed a spoon, ready to eat.

“Greg- maybe you shouldn’t-” Jonathan, the traitor, was snickering too much to be of any actual assistance.

“It’s fine, dad. This is going to make me a millionaire!”

Greg scooped up a heaped spoonful of what looked like about three quarters molasses and one quarter potato, and shoved it excitedly into his waiting mouth, never one for suspense when there was food to be inhaled.

Silence hung in the air as Greg chewed. He was laser-focused, brow furrowed and thoughtfully ‘hmm’ing. It seemed as if the entire house was holding its breath, all eyes glued to Greg as his face scrunched up in pure concentration.

He breathed in deeply through his nose and opened his mouth. The brown concoction slid slowly off his tongue and landed with a wet 'plop' onto his plate. The whole table stared at the disgusting slop in total silence and stillness, expressions varying from intense disgust to mild interest.

“Well,” Greg reasoned, grinning wide with sticky-brown teeth. “It’s probably an inquired taste.”

Jonathan snorted unattractively and Amy had to hide her laughter behind her hand. It didn’t help when Jon started hooting and applauding loudly, shouting, “Encore! Encore!” Greg, in response, bowed ostentatiously, saying, “Thank you, ladies and gents, my adoring fans!”

Wirt just rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. “It’s ‘acquired’, Greg. And what did I tell you?” He took his plate and eyed Greg’s with distaste. “Some things just don’t go together.”

Greg’s face hardened into a determined pout. “They can go together! They just need a little work! I’ll prove it!” With that, he took the spoon once again and crammed even more into his mouth.

Wirt exhaled in an extremely put-upon way. “Just stop trying. Nothing you can do will make it taste better.”

“Hey! I don’t like that attitude!” Greg scolded with his mouth full. He pointed his spoon dramatically at his older brother, sending the sticky mess flying. “Don’t you know you can do anything if you set your mind to it?” Wirt, despite his usually alarmingly bad coordination, managed to duck just in time for it to soar past him and land on the wall. Wirt and Amy sighed in unison, while Jonathan let out a very unhelpful, “Aaaaand he scores!”

“Stop that, it’s gross.” Wirt made his way to the kitchen. “Thank you for dinner, mom.”

Amy raised an eyebrow at him, one of her most powerful weapons. “I didn’t do much. Thank Jonathan.”

Wirt shifted his eyes to Jonathan, who was smiling and shrugging. “It’s fine, Wirt. No need to thank me.”

Wirt muttered something that vaguely resembled a "thanks" before stalking out of the dining room. Amy groaned. They’d _really_ have to talk about his appalling behaviour later. In the meantime, she shot Jon, who was grinning apologetically, a look which she hoped was meaningful and _very_ disapproving, then turned her attention back to her younger son, who was still grimacing his way through a full plate of mashed potatoes and molasses.

Jonathan breathed out a laugh. He got up from his seat and crouched down so that he was at eye level with Greg. “You know, little man, if you don’t like it…”

Greg swallowed more vigorously. “I like it,” he insisted solemnly.

“You don’t have to finish it, honey,” Amy said. “You tried it, and you’ve done your best, so it’s okay to throw it out. Just don’t do it again so you’re not wasting food, okay?”

Greg flicked his eyes between them, put down the spoon slowly and stared hard at his plate. “I’ll make it work,” he muttered. “I know I can.”

Amy glanced towards the kitchen, and got the feeling they weren’t talking about potatoes and molasses anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUBTLE.
> 
> this work contains a rampant abuse of italics and the word 'sighed', and i'm really sorry. also, i tried to set this in america but i am australian and i'm pretty sure it shows haha WHOOPS
> 
> another thanks to [skimmingthesurface](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for graciously letting me borrow her characters and also for generally being a fantastic human being, and also to my sister, whom i peer pressured into reading over this. she reluctantly edited it, providing some constructive insights and some decidedly not-constructive comments, and i disregarded almost all of them :D
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed!!


	2. Beatrice

If Beatrice still had hands, she was sure she’d be strangling one of these damn brothers by now.

Both of them were _so annoying_ , always either running headfirst into unnecessary trouble or wandering dazedly off course, and always in the exact opposite direction Beatrice was trying to lead them. Greg was irritatingly exuberant and loud about everything, and Wirt’s teenage angsting could rival even her own.

(Though he wasn’t quite on par with her oldest little brother; Thomas, at the tender age of fourteen and a half, was the whole package of mood swings, eye rolling, unsolicited sass, door slamming-

But there wouldn’t be much of any of that if he was stuck as a bluebird forever.

Right. Back to business.)

And now, here they were, sitting in a schoolhouse filled with dumb animals who obviously _couldn’t_ talk, or read, or probably understand simple English. Their little outfits were admittedly adorable, but Beatrice was way too busy and mature to notice something like that, obviously.

And even worse, the lady instructing them was either completely bonkers or not trying very hard to teach at all, or maybe a little bit of both. Either way, she had some issues that were in desperate need of solving, and Beatrice was not keen to hang around for the inevitable breakdown.

And right now, the woman was playing some kind of dreary hogwash on a boring piano that was only serving to make the dull atmosphere even duller and more horribly stifling.

“Oh boy, mealtime!” Greg came waddling in, followed by a veritable stampede of scrappy woodland animals, also dressed in little clothes. He plopped down into his seat and bounced about, seeming to be the only lively thing in the entire room.

“This is _way_ better than being chased by a gorilla,” he opined. That comment was slightly concerning, but Greg seemed to be as relentlessly (and gratingly) cheerful as ever, so she let it go, ignoring the almost instinctual wave of protectiveness that threatened to overcome her. Greg wasn’t _her_ brother, and he wasn’t her responsibility. She would drop him off at Adelaide’s, get the scissors, and forget she had ever met him and his poor excuse for an older brother.

(She would _never_ let her siblings run around with zero supervision, if there was a chance they could get hurt. She would never let any harm befall them, she would never-

Except she’d done exactly that, which was why she was on this ridiculous quest in the first place.)

The animal sitting next to the excitable little boy sniffed the lumpy, colourless slop on its plate and took a bite. It slumped in its chair, groaning pitifully, and Greg turned his gaze on it with concern in his stupidly big, shiny eyes.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” he asked, trying some of the potatoes himself. “Hmm. Kinda bland.” The boy looked unusually despondent, like he was carrying the weight of everyone else’s sadness on his little shoulders.

(Or something like that. It was just, he reminded Beatrice of Audrey at that moment, who was a shy yet sweet little girl of nine, who always shouldered the responsibilities of her siblings, who had probably found a way to blame herself for-

And that was enough of that.)

She turned to look at Wirt, expecting some kind of awkward attempt at comforting words to come stumbling from his mouth, but was almost surprised to see him focused entirely on his plate of ‘food’.

It made Beatrice weirdly irritated. Sure, she hated it when Greg literally would not stop chattering excitedly at her, but it wasn’t like she liked seeing him _sad_ , either (but then, that might just be because little children got sticky and snotty when they cried, and she would go to any lengths to avoid that). But anyway, wasn’t it Wirt’s job, as Greg’s older brother, to comfort him when he was sad? To swoop in and fix whatever ridiculous problems six year olds faced?

(She recalled patching up scraped knees, sacrificing desserts, cuddling to keep away nightmares. And she recalled being reluctant, she remembered complaining about it. But wasn’t she responsible for keeping her siblings safe and happy? And, failing that, didn’t she have to do absolutely anything to fix it?

So yeah. Greg wasn’t her problem. She had bigger fish to fry.)

She let her building annoyance spill out of her as she watched Wirt raise a spoon to his mouth. “Hey, nobody ordered you to eat yet.”

He looked at her, confused. “Yeah, but… hmm.” Glancing back at his spoon, he lowered it back to the table.

Okay, so she was being a little mean, but it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it for being so damn difficult.

“Hmmm,” Greg hmmed loudly, surveilling the room thoughtfully. “Oh!” He must have spied something he liked by the piano, because he lit up brighter than a lantern in this dumb deep dark forest they were wandering through and scampered his way over.

“Hey, I know what to do! Here, Ms Langtree, play something like this!” He banged his little fists eagerly on the keys with wild abandon and no apparent regard for tonality, though what he apparently lacked in musical talent he made up for in sheer enthusiasm.

“What, like this?” Ms Langtree started up a jaunty, pleasant tune, which to Beatrice’s refined ears (or ear holes, or... whatever) didn’t bear any resemblance to Greg’s random key smashing whatsoever.

“Hmm.” Greg considered this, then nodded, appeased. “Good enough.” He grabbed a jar of molasses from on top of the piano, climbed onto the table (with some difficulty, because of his chubby little gnome legs), and began to sing.

 _Oh boy_ , Beatrice thought with a long mental sigh. _Here it comes._

“Oh, potatoes and molasses,” he started. “If you want some, oh just ask us-”

Wirt was looking at his brother with confusion, as if he’d somehow, through some miraculously selective hearing, forgotten the little boy was there. Beatrice figured that it probably took years of practice and lots of determination to possibly learn to ignore such a vibrant and obnoxious person as Greg.

“They’re warm and soft like puppies in socks. Filled with cream and candy rocks!”

As it turned out, the kid could hold a tune pretty well, but his lyrics were far from genius.

“Oh, potatoes and molasses.” Alright, so the song was proving to be ridiculously fun and catchy. Beatrice had to physically stop herself from nodding along, but Wirt wasn’t so immune. He was humming quietly and tapping out the beat, his lips twitching very slightly upward. Huh. She wasn’t aware his face could actually do that.

“They’re so much sweeter than algebra class! If your stomach is grumblin’ and your mouth starts mumblin’, there’s only one thing to keep your brain from crumblin’!” Now Greg was taking it upon himself to bring this apparently wonderful mixture of food to his peers. Beatrice herself was certain that she would never eat potatoes and molasses together, not ever, in a million years, not even as a human, but the other animals seemed to be having fun, so to each his own, she supposed.

“Oh potatoes and molasses! If you can’t see ‘em put on your glasses!” For some reason, the animals seemed to have suddenly gained access to musical instruments, and Greg had pulled a pair of glasses out of nowhere, and there were mashed potatoes and molasses flying all over the place, and Wirt was _enjoying himself_ , and Beatrice wasn’t sure which way was up anymore.

“They’re shiny and large, like a fisherman’s barge.” While Beatrice thought that that comparison was a little bit out there, no one else seemed to mind. Wirt, of all people, had taken his spoon and glass of milk and was providing the song with a bit of percussion. And he had a little grin and everything. Things were getting surreal. “You know you’ve eat enough when you start seeing stars!”

“Oh, potatoes and molasses. It’s the only thing left on your task list!” When and how had this tiny butterball of a human started conducting a full band?

“They’re short and stout to make everyone shout! For potatoes and molasses.” Wirt was getting really into it. Beatrice was pretty sure this was the happiest she’d ever seen him, and it was sort of bothering her for some reason she couldn’t quite place. It was definitely the most responsive he’d ever been towards Greg, anyway, and considering the dangers those boys had faced, it was a little bit troubling.

“For potatoes and-”

“That’s enough!”

And then a very huge and very ugly man stormed in and put all the music and dancing and silliness to rest. Thank God for that, right?

(Beatrice would probably never admit that she was a little disappointed. And she’d definitely never admit that it was the most fun she’d had since the curse was placed on her and her family.

Right. The curse. Her family. The whole reason she was putting up with these buffoons in the first place.)

*

Okay, fine. So the little twerp was not quite as obnoxious as Beatrice kept telling herself. In fact, he was even sort of- ugh, she hated to say this-  _sweet_.

And the big twerp? Well, he was a moron, but he was a moron who’d just inadvertently saved the day and was now watching his little brother energetically conducting a band of animals with an almost-but-not-quite fond smile.

“So, want to tell Greg it’s time to get going?” Big Twerp asked. Beatrice glanced at him, saw his face turned towards her, and noticed for the first time the sprinkle of freckles dotting his nose. It struck her that he was only a kid. A bit of a dorky, wimpy loser, but a kid nonetheless.

And, well, if Beatrice saw a part of herself (a small part, a _minuscule_ part) in his reluctant, exasperated affection and all the things he still had to learn, she was probably imagining things.

She watched Greg, and if she saw her brothers and sisters in his determination and his silliness and his desperation for attention from his dumb teenage sibling, then it was probably a coincidence.

“Nah,” she said, settling down, maybe for the first time since becoming a bluebird, and letting herself relax to the music. “Let him have his fun.”

And Beatrice thought, for the first time, that maybe, _just maybe_ , these boys had places to go. Maybe they had lives to live and more memories to make and a family of their own to get back to. Maybe they were learning stuff on this tiresome little journey. Maybe so was she.

“Hey, Wirt?”

“Yeah?”

“Tie your shoe.”

“Hmm? Oh. Mm. Okay.”

She smiled. Then again, maybe not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was probably the easiest to write for me, and one of the most fun, although i can't help but feel like anything beatrice says is slightly anachronistic. whatever though, ambiguously modern speech patterns suit her better than fancy regency (???) era talk. i hope i managed to get her right!
> 
> thanks again to skimmingthesurface for the inspiration and the little sis for her encouragement, which was hidden behind many layers of exasperation, irritation and impatience!!
> 
> i hope that you enjoyed and you all have a wonderful day!


	3. Jonathan

Contrary to popular belief (ahem, Amy), sometimes Jonathan worried. He wasn’t usually very good at being nervous and anxious about things, but not even the most carefree person on earth could be carefree all the time.

These bouts of distress were few and far between, but when they happened, they were usually because of Greg and/or Wirt. Her swore up and down that those two were giving him ulcers and premature grey hairs (and he maintained that thirty seven was much too young for either of these things, Amy, _much too young_ ).

That Halloween night was probably one of the worst nights of his life. Everything about it, from the call to the drive to the hospital to the moment just before seeing Wirt and Greg were alive and well was a sickening blur.

The two things he remembered most clearly from that night were:

1\. The look on Amy’s face when she saw that her boys ( _their_ boys) were safe. She just melted, and her tears spilled freely, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that so did his.  
2\. How very… well, _nice_ Wirt was being to Greg.

It had been weird when Jonathan first noticed, but he just chalked it up to a long night and a near-death experience, figured things would be back to normal once they were out of hospital, and left it at that.

But now, a week later, Jonathan was getting slightly concerned.

He guessed he sort of understood- almost dying with your younger brother would probably make you protective, sure. But _Wirt_? Constantly sticking by his younger brother’s side and making sure he was okay would have, a week ago, been way too much to ask of the teenager.

And yet, here they were.

Not that the change was a bad one. All Greg had ever wanted from his brother was a little attention, and now Wirt was going above and beyond the call of duty, they both seemed happier for it. But it still seemed out-of-character, and both Jonathan and Amy were considering taking Wirt back to a doctor to double check for some kind of head trauma.

It was the night after the boys’ first day back at school, and he and Amy had cooked veal schnitzel (Wirt’s favourite) with mashed potatoes (Greg’s favourite) to celebrate. Greg insisted upon starting off the meal with an exhibition, starring himself as the featured artist, passing some pictures he’d painted at school around the table for everyone to be in total awe of and compliment loudly.

While Amy asked poignant questions regarding the inspiration and influences of the artworks (all of which Greg answered with mysterious, sage nods), Jonathan managed to correctly identify a family of bluebirds, pumpkin people dancing around a maypole and a boat with some very fancy frogs on board. Unfortunately, one painting was so abstract he simply couldn’t comprehend it- the subject looked like a bizarre zebra/squirrel/unicorn-pegasus hybrid, but it was deceivingly labelled _‘Self Portrait’_ , so he was forced to give up. “Sorry little man,” he said to Greg, “I got nothin’.”

Neither Amy nor Wirt had ever been able to guess what even the least abstract of Greg’s drawings depicted, so it came as a big surprise when Wirt said matter-of-factly, “It’s a magical tiger.”

All eyes swivelled to him, and his neck suddenly disappeared into his shoulders. “Isn’t it?” he asked, squeaking a little at the end.

Greg, with a proud smile, declared, “You got it, my brother-captain-king!”

“Uh, that's- not quite it, Greg,” Wirt said, nonetheless accepting his brother's enthusiastic request for a hi-five. Amy looked bemused. Jonathan felt bewildered.

After that initial round of confusion, the family settled into peacefulness as they enjoyed the meal, savouring the rare moments of quiet they only got when Greg was either eating or sleeping. Not that they didn’t enjoy his enthusiasm and noise, either, but not everyone could be six and excited by everything.

He should have realised that this was the calm before the storm.

All of a sudden there was the sound of a loud gasp and two tiny hands slamming on the table. Jonathan dropped his cutlery in surprise and quickly prepared himself for something exciting and dramatic.

Wirt exhaled, but a little laugh pushed past any anger or annoyance that might have otherwise been there, another time. “What’s the problem, Greg?”

The little boy looked scandalised. “I can’t believe I forgot!”

With an uppity “pardonnez-moi”, he spun in a circle and leapt off his chair, landing in a surprisingly graceful manner. Jonathan thought, not for the first time, about signing Greg up for ballet lessons. He’d ask Amy about it later.

Amy laughed softly and shook her head. “We really need to teach him some basic table manners.”

“Well, he did excuse himself, however poor his French accent was,” Wirt countered, grinning.

Grinning.

“I’ll have you know my French accent is tray bon!” Greg defended as he toddled back into the room, clutching a jar to his chest.

Jonathan smacked his forehead. “Of course! How could we forget the molasses?”

“It’s a tragedy,” Greg agreed solemnly. “And as punishment for your terrible crime, none of you felons get to have any of this delicacy!”

A croak sounded from the baby high chair, which had been dragged into place next to Greg with great struggle and a determination only Greg could have. (Jonathan had offered to help, but Greg had insisted that Jason Funderberker was solely his and Wirt’s responsibility, and he simply could not accept any other assistance.)

All eyes turned to the Palmer-Whelan household’s third son, and Greg patted him comfortingly. “Except you, Jason Funderberker. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Jason’s slimy amphibian face somehow managed to look satisfied.

Greg plopped back down into his chair (complete with a whispered “plop” for sound effect) and began using all the strength in his little arms to try to open the lid.

Amy shook her head fondly and turned to her oldest son. “And how was your day at school, honey?”

Wirt hummed in consideration. “It was pretty good, I guess. Classes were fine, but some people were almost… I don’t know.” Greg, finally admitting defeat, wordlessly passed the jar to Wirt, who took it and popped it open without even looking away from Amy. “Almost too nice? Like I would break down at the merest mention of Halloween or water or- or little brothers, or whatever.”

As Jon and Amy grimaced in sympathy, Greg dumped liberal spoonfuls of molasses onto his plate, also listening intently.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Wirt continued. “I’d just prefer it if everyone forgot about what happened and…” _‘Left me alone’_ was the obvious ending to that sentence, and probably the one Wirt-before-the-accident would have immediately gone with. But Wirt-after-the-accident stopped, and considered, and amended, “I’d prefer it if everyone would let me deal with it in my own time. In my own way.”

It wasn’t an enormous change, Jonathan thought, but it was a good one. He felt a swell of pride for the teenager sitting in front of him. He was growing up, and Jonathan was glad to be here to see it.

“Well, you know we’re always here, if you ever need it.” Wirt’s head jerked up and he looked at Jonathan with furrowed eyebrows and a tilted head, like a confused little puppy. “And, just... tell us if we’re pushing any boundaries. We’ll try to back off.”

Wirt chewed his lip for a moment before nodding and… smiling? At him? Huh. Another new addition to add to the ever-growing list.

“Yeah! You don’t have to worry about anything with me as leader!” Greg piped up, puffing out his chest proudly and pumping his fist victoriously, somehow getting molasses all over his shirt and face and through his hair in the process. His kid was a riot.

Wirt sighed very loudly, but it was unmistakably fond. “Yeah, yeah. Hey, could you pass the molasses, Greg?”

Okay. This was rapidly speeding past the point of abnormality and into the otherworldly. Greg threw himself bodily across the table in his excitement, and Jonathan absently wondered if he’d fallen into another dimension.

“But Wirt!” Greg exclaimed, his eyes shining. “What’s the magic word?”

There was lots of groaning as Wirt, exasperated, said, “ _Please_ pass me the molasses, dearest brother o’ mine?”

Greg tutted. “No, it’s ‘cheese and crackers’! Cheese and crackers, Wirt, this is basic stuff here!”

Wirt rolled his eyes, looking harassed. “Just pass me the dang molasses, Greg.”

Greg gasped dramatically. “Wirt! We don’t use that kind of language in this household!” His impression of his mother was spot-on, and even the woman herself had to laugh a little.

Wirt snorted and played along, pitching his voice higher in an attempt to imitate Amy, which only resulted in more voice-cracking than usual. “Gregory Whelan, you pass me those molasses right now or so help me I’ll ground you for a month!”

Greg growled, but it was ruined by his large grin. “No! These molasses are mine to protect! I’ll never hand them over to the likes of you!”

“Well, I guess I’m going to have to make that _two_ months!”

“ _Two months?_ ” Greg wailed, throwing his head back in pure in anguish.

“Why am I the villain in this?” Amy lamented, but her complaints fell on deaf ears. The boys continued to jostle each other lightly, even as Wirt managed to snag the molasses and serve himself a generous dollop.

Amy leant over and whispered to Jonathan, “Do you think we should be worried about him?”

He considered this, as he watched the boys clink their potatoes-and-molasses-filled spoons together and nudge each other playfully. It was hard to miss Wirt’s smile, which was miles bigger than the fleeting one that appeared very rarely, before Halloween. He got the feeling he didn’t know even close to the full story, but they’d let that come around in its own time.

“Nah, I think he’ll be fine.”

Everything felt like it was exactly as it should be. He could hear it all playing out in a perfect four-part harmony, and he thought that he could probably get used to this.

(A croak interrupted his train of thought, and Jonathan amended his previous statement- a wonderfully wacky five-part harmony. Couldn’t forget the third son.

Jason Funderberker looked more than a little content. Jonathan could relate.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was stuck on this chapter for SO LONG, and then one day it just suddenly exploded out of me. please enjoy the agony i went through trying to make jonathan not sound like a teenage girl (not sure if it worked???)
> 
> many thanks again to skimmingthesurface for being a veritable font of inspiration and all-round awesomeness!!


	4. Sara

Sara couldn’t help but notice, these days, that Wirt was so much… brighter, in the weeks after that fateful Halloween night, the night when some crazy stuff went down and a lot of things changed. Little things, yeah, but good things.

And one of those things was going to give her a heart attack if she didn’t intervene soon. Walking in front of her were Wirt and his little brother Greg, swinging their clasped hands between them as they hummed a jaunty tune together. It was  _ disgustingly  _ adorable.

“Hey Wirt, you coming to get lunch with us?” Taylor called out from next to her. Wirt turned his head and nodded enthusiastically, pulling on Greg’s hand to lead him into the British Fish and Chip shop just around the corner from the park. It wasn’t really the season for chips, but Isabelle had bullied the rest of them into it, and anyway, the warmth would be a nice change from the crisp, not quite frosty mid-November air.

Entering the store was like… like walking into a brick wall, but instead of bricks, it was made of soupy warmth and frying oil, or something (poetry had always been Wirt’s thing, anyway). “So, why’s Greg here?” Trevor asked. Always tactful, that Trevor. Sara shot him a look. “I mean, I’m not complaining, or anything,” he hastily explained. “Just, you know, wondering.”

Wirt seemed almost nervous. “Uh, sorry, he just... really wanted to come along. He wouldn’t- I guess-” He stared down resolutely at Greg, looking like he was trying very hard not to glare.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Isabelle assured hastily. “We’re glad to have him.”.

Wirt let out a breath, sounding relieved. “Yeah?”

Greg brightened and looked buoyant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It was only after an almost-tantrum when Wirt refused to buy Greg an ice pop and some drama involving a spilt drink and Jason’s new button-up shirt that they managed to find a nice place in the park to sit and eat, but Sara was happy to note that this kind of stuff had become so standard that it barely even registered on her radar anymore.

The chips were hot and steaming, and both Sara and Greg burned their tongues trying to inhale them too quickly. It soon turned into a game, them orating poetry with their tongues sticking out and seeing who could elicit the loudest laughs. Greg was winning, because his overdramatic recitals were hilarious and suspiciously reminiscent of his older brother, but also partly because he knew way more poetry than Sara, which was a little embarrassing. Wirt’s face managed to be simultaneously indignant and proud. It made Sara sort of wish she had a little brother- or sister, whatever, she wasn’t picky. Someone like a little best friend, someone to be proud of, even for the most ridiculous stuff- like terrible poetry, for example.

After Sara had exhausted all her repertoire, Greg had gleefully taken over, and was only just starting on the limericks when Wirt suddenly straightened up. Sara looked over to him, and her heart went a little funny at the sight of his bright eyes and the smile that was twitching at his lips.

“Hey, Wirt! Whatchu grinning about over there?” Greg piped up, halting his stirring rendition of  _ A Wonderful Bird is the Pelican _ , to everyone’s disappointment.

Instead of a scowl twisting up his face, as Sara was half expecting, Wirt’s smile only grew. “Oh, nothing, Greg.” He clambered to his feet and brushed the crumbs and grass off his clothes before seeming to realise that everyone was looking at him expectantly. His face turned bright red, starting with his ears and spreading to his cheeks and slightly freckled nose. It was absurdly cute. “I’m just going to the- I’m gonna go get- I’ll be back.” And with that, he scrambled away.

“Man, he’s weird,” Trevor mused.

“Yeah. Having any second thoughts, Sara?” Isabelle nudged Sara in the ribs and Sara swatted her hand away.

“Guys, honestly. If I was worried about Wirt being weird, I wouldn’t have started liking him in the first place,” she reasoned. Everyone laughed, though not meanly, and Greg laughed loudest of all. Sara caught his eye and winked at him, and he attempted to wink back, though it ended up looking more like an enthusiastic, spasmodic blink than anything else.

Wirt came jogging back a few minutes later with a plastic bag, slightly out of breath and trying to hide it. After a moment of hesitation and a furtive glance at Sara, he carefully sat himself between her and Greg. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but Sara didn’t bother shuffling over to make more room. His bony knee was resting gently against hers, which was sorta nice, and it was making him very obviously flustered, which was sorta adorable.

“I, uh, I got... this.” Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a little jar of some black substance of an unknown variety. He seemed hyper-aware of the eyes on him and fumbled slightly as he shoved the jar into Greg’s hands. “Here you go.”

Greg titled his head. “Molasses?” Wirt nodded to his chips, and Greg’s mouth popped open into a little ‘o’. His eyes widened with realisation, shining like a… fluorescent light, maybe? He took the jar almost reverently from Wirt’s hands and a grin took over his face. “Potatoes! And molasses!” he crowed excitedly, and started attacking the lid with the same kind of vigor that Sara had thought was reserved for small dogs with red rubber balls. Jason squeaked, slightly terrified.

“Hey- hey, calm down, you little rapscallion,” Wirt said over Greg’s excited growling, wrestling the jar from his hands and popping open the lid with much less energy. Greg jumped up and down on his butt, giggling madly, and Sara was almost overcome with the urge to pinch his chubby little cheeks and take him home with her and cuddle him forever and ever.

“Thank you!” he shouted when Wirt handed the molasses back again. Sara watched with a mixture of amusement and concern as Greg tipped the jar upside down over his lunch and the sugary syrup started trickling out.

“Um,” she said, trying to hold back a snort.

“It’s fine,” Wirt assured, sitting back and watching his younger half-brother with unmistakable affection. “It’s his favourite, he knows what he’s doing.”

“It’s delicious,” Greg said earnestly. Having drowned his chips in molasses, he handed the jar to Wirt, who began to follow Greg’s lead. “And don’t you worry, frienderinos, I’ve left enough for the rest of you!”

Jason’s face became even more frightened, a little green even, and he shook his head vigorously. “Uh, no thanks, Greg. Really.”

“Yeah, I think I’m good,” Taylor said through her horrified giggles.

Trevor placed a hand on Greg’s slumping shoulders, trying to look grave despite his manically twitching lips. “Sorry, little man, but I’m just not a desserts type of guy.”

Isabelle was having more trouble than the others at smothering her laughter. “Yeah, uh, ditto. I’m a bit of a traditionalist myself. Good old ketchup is enough for me.”

Greg and Wirt both turned pouting faces to Sara. Wirt’s puppy dog look, she could only barely handle. Greg, with his wobbling lip, big, pleading eyes and tiny, chubby hands clasped together tight, was even harder to resist. But  _ together _ ? She sighed internally, and resigned herself to the fact that she would never be able to deny these brothers anything.

She shrugged. “Hey, why not? I like a little adventure in my life.”

Both their faces split into matching grins, and her heart melted into a disgusting little puddle of, like, organ. And blood.

It ended up tasting disgusting, but even while struggling to swallow her ruined lunch, she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

*

“You know, you’re getting along much better with Greg.” Everyone else had returned home, but Sara was still walking with the brothers back to their place. She’d insisted that their house was on the way to hers, though she didn’t bother mentioning that this was only true if she took the very, _very_ long route. (Worth it.)

“You- you think?” He seemed distressed to learn this, which was ridiculous.

“It’s a good thing, Wirt. You both seem happier, since Halloween.” Sara was still a bit wary about mentioning That Night, but, really, she figured it couldn’t have been so bad if Wirt was smiling openly about 90% more than he had before he and Greg almost drowned.

And anyway, she couldn’t help but look back on it a little fondly, since it was the night Wirt had finally been ready enough to ask her out. Well, almost-but-not-quite ask her out. She should really clarify that, now that she was sure he was willing to go there.

It took her a while to notice that Wirt was looking at her. “What are you staring at? Do I have something on my face?” She went cross-eyed to see if she’d somehow managed to get molasses on her nose in the process of trying not to spit it out of her mouth.

“Oh, I wasn’t...  _ staring _ , I was just-” He bit his lip. It was delightful. “Well, no, I was staring.” She raised her eyebrows at him, very amused, and he stammered to continue. “It’s like- I was just thinking, that… that you’re beautiful. Inside, outside, and all around.”

Sara’s stomach performed some impressive gymnastics. “All around?”

“I- I just meant that you make your surroundings more beautiful, too. Just by being there.”

Sara wanted to either slap her hands to her cheeks and scream to the heavens about how cute this boy was or cover her face and groan with embarrassment, but she managed to hold all that melodrama in and keep it to a little grin. “That’s… hmmm. That’s adorable. Thanks.”

“Yes, well,” he said, and Sara felt like this was about the time a screen should pop up and ask her,  _ ‘Do you want to save your game? You can never turn back after this point.’ _

_ Whatever,  _ she thought,  _ I might as well go for it. _

“I like you, Wirt. Do you wanna go out sometime?” According to most young adult novels, that moment right then was when she should have started regretting every single one of her life choices up until that point. Instead, she felt mostly chill. Yeah, those butterflies in her stomach were having an all-out fiesta, and her hands were a little sweaty, which was sorta gross, but what can you do? It was sorta nice, the fact that it was uneventful. Right now, she felt really, truly _relaxed_ , in the way people thought she always was, in the way that sometimes felt kind of forced. She felt this reassuring warmth a lot around Wirt, she'd noticed.

Wirt froze. “W- what?”

“I like you, Wirt,” Sara repeated. “Do you wanna go out sometime?”

“You- uh- I- what?” He was rapidly turning the colour of… blood, she guessed. That's what blushing was, after all.

She took a deep breath to stop herself from laughing. “I like you, Wirt. Do you wanna-”

“Okay, right, yeah, I- yeah. I got it.”

“Cool.” They walked a little further, and Sara basked in the glow of Wirt’s firetruck-red face.

“So, um. When…?” The end of the word went up, almost like a question, but Sara knew he wasn’t done, so she smiled encouragingly at him and let him finish. He cleared his throat. “When. Would you like to go out?”

She tapped a finger against her chin and pretended to look thoughtful, but there was definitely a smile fighting to claim territory on her face. “I’m free anytime after school, except Wednesdays. Marching band practice,” she clarified when he looked curious. “How does Friday sound? I could come over to your house? Maybe?”

Wirt’s eyes widened, but then he took a deep breath and nodded sharply, a determined look on his face. “I- yes. I would like that very much.”

“Awesome.” After her heart stopped attempting to beat its way out of her chest, she said in as much of a cajoling voice as she could muster, “You should join.”

“What?”

“You should join marching band.”

“Oh, uh… yeah. I mean, I guess, but…” He trailed off and looked over at Greg, who seemed to be trying to make snow angels, but in the grass. Sara watched in fascination as Wirt’s eyebrows unscrunched, and his worried eyes turned soft, and his mouth curled upwards, almost involuntarily. “You know, I… I think I might.”

“Awesome.” Sara grinned and nudged him. “It sure would make Greg happy, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it really would.” And then Sara had to hold her breath, because watching the smile break out on his face was like watching the sun come up.

Hey, maybe she was getting the hang of this poetry thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, lovely readers! this was posted later than i planned but it's not like anyone was waiting for it, so i'll just say that i hope you enjoyed this silly little story, because i definitely enjoyed writing it
> 
> and, of course, i must give one last HUGE, ENORMOUS THANK YOU to [skimmingthesurface](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for letting me use her wonderful characters and for being really awesome :)
> 
> have a wonderful holiday everybody, and thank you very much for reading!!


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